


Lay Your Body Down

by orphan_account



Category: Crossfire (Music Video)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-19
Updated: 2010-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-13 19:07:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/140666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watching you dress as you turn down the lights / I forget all about the storm outside.</p><p>Love and pain. With ninjas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lay Your Body Down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [squeequeg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/squeequeg/gifts).



The first time he met her, it was at the gym. Total cliche, of course. Saw each other across the pool during the free swim hour, bumped into each other by the elliptical machines, met up again by the free weights. He made her laugh and did his best to not seem like every other white collar asshole at the gym on a Tuesday morning, she was smart and funny and had a killer smile.

So he asked her out and managed not to look shocked when she said yes. Their first date was fantastic - the best one he can remember. He still remembers the feeling after saying good-night in front of her apartment, his step light and his head even lighter as he walked seven blocks past his bus stop and then back again.

Someday, weeks down the line, he'll think back to his first impression of her. And he'll push past the hazy, rosy film of _wow, WOW_ and he'll remember the irregularities that escaped his first (and second, and third) notice. Like: the ripped clothes. The bruise blooming on her right forearm. The tiny trickle of blood from her hairline down the back of her neck.

 _God damn it,_ he'll realize on his thirty-minute lunch break, throwing down his tuna sandwich. _She was on a mission_.

***

When the ninjas showed up the first time, it was something of a shock, to say the least. He had been cooking dinner in her apartment when her phone rang. "Gotta run out for ten minutes," she called to him, grabbing her leather coat and bag from the front hall. "Don't go anywhere!"

Later, he'll realize it was not the affectionate request he first thought it was, but a warning.

Because when he ran out to get a bottle of wine from around the corner, upon returning he didn't know to reactivate the complicated series of alarms and fail-safes she kept up at all times.

He's just glad she wasn't around the first time the ninjas showed up. No woman should have to hear the man she's dating shriek like a five-year-old girl and throw cauliflower helplessly at his armed assailants.

It was just _closest_ , all right? Had the knife been within arms' reach, he totally would have thrown that instead.

He woke up hours (days?) later, wrists tied to a steel hook embedded in the cold, cement wall he was propped up against. _Everything_ hurt. Knees, shoulders, back, jaw, ankles. His fingers were stiff and at least two felt broken or disjointed. He could feel sweat or blood trickling down the side of his face.

The basement was something out of a nightmare or a Quentin Tarantino film. Leaking pipes, a pale light coming from some upstairs source, the creaks and groans of a decades-old house in need of a lot of maintenance.

People had died there. He was absolutely positive.

It's a terrible thing, to panic when you're tied up and in a strange place. Things are already pretty horrifying at that point, and hysteria will do you no good in that situation. And yet there he was, arms strung up painfully, the cold and wet seeping into his clothes, the ominous sounds of footsteps and indistinguishable voices coming from above, and he _freaked the fuck out_.

His breath came fast in short, painful bursts. His legs kicked at nothing, scrabbling for purchase but lacking the strength or coordination to stand. His arms twisted, causing sharp pain to scream through his shoulders and out his mouth, echoing in the dark in a gruesome reverberation of his terror.

The noise upstairs stopped. So did his heart. Only for a moment, then he heard footsteps draw closer to the door and his heart began to beat twice as loud and fast as he had ever felt it before.

The door opened slowly, light blinding him and forcing his head away.

 _Well_ , he thought, somewhat coherent through his fear and pain. _I guess this is it_.

The seconds seemed to stretch out, long and misshapen, as he waited for the indistinct figures to come down the stairs and finish the botched job of murdering him. Before he could decide if he would rather death by bullet or (no or, death by bullet was infinitely better than any other grisly option speeding through his mind) all hell broke loose.

The first one was thrown down the stairs with so much force it cracked the bottom step. The second one held out a little longer, putting in a good fight on the landing before being tossed over the railing onto the cement floor below.

Numbers three and four were backed down the stairs by the new intruder, combating fiercely with, he noted with no small amount of wonder, _swords_. Who _were_ these people?

The intruder dispatched cleanly and quickly with all of his original captors, then turned hesitantly to face him, in all his chained and broken glory.

He blinked up at his savior, the light from upstairs still blinding his unaccustomed corneas, not to mention the moisture on his face was definitely blood and definitely dripping into his eyes. Still, it only took a half second before he recognized her.

"What," he said weakly. Then he passed out.

The next time he woke up, he was in a hospital room, clean and bandaged and drugged. (It wasn't a hospital, he found out later, but some sort of secret lair/base with a fully equipped medical staff that he would become very well acquainted with.) She stood in the doorway, chewing on a thumbnail.

"Hi," she said nervously.

"Oh," he croaked. "That wasn't a dream?"

She shook her head. "No. How are you feeling?"

He stared at her. "Fine and dandy?"

"I'm serious."

"I'm okay. What happened? Who were those people?"

"They're ninjas. They -"

"Nope. Stop." He shut his eyes, trying to clear the fog. "Ninjas?"

"Security force."

"For who?"

"They work for my..." she waved her hand aimlessly. "Nemesis."

He thought for a moment. "Normal people don't have nemeses."

She looked at him. "Bingo."

He nodded, then regretted the action as his neck seized up. "You're not normal?"

"Who is?" she shrugged.

"Sure, fair enough. Completely regular, you are."

"Who are you, Yoda?" she asked, trying to smile.

"I'm sorry, I'm not the one who just took out four ninjas without breaking a sweat, so I think if anyone here is a _Star Wars_ character, that would be you, Obi Wan." He could hear the hint of hysteria creeping into his voice. "I mean, sure, you might be more like Han Solo, or if you feel like flying your feminist flag, let's say Leia, but I think it's safe to say you've got the whole Jedi thing in the bag, right?"

She watched him unhinge, his voice rising with every word. She looked completely lost and uncertain of herself, something that didn't escape his notice.

"I can tell that this isn't really up your ally, is it?" he asked frantically. "I mean, ninjas and terrifying basements are a piece of cake, but I can't imagine you have a lot of know-how with panicking boyfriends."

"Not really," she agreed, still stationary in her spot by the door. "Do you have any advice?"

"Come here," he said shakily. "Sit on the bed."

She sat cautiously, careful of his injured limbs. "Now what?" she asked.

"Kiss me."

She smiled, glancing down. He watched a faint blush stain her complexion and was gratified to realize that he was still as crazy about her as he was before she almost got him killed. "I'm waiting," he reminded her softly.

She laughed softly, leaning over to press her lips gently against his. Pulling back, she looked at him for a long moment. "I'm glad they didn't kill you."

He hesitated. "Right. We're going to have to work on this whole 'comforting' thing, but it's a good start."

Explaining took awhile. She would give information in bits and pieces, pulling back every time he started to panic. Her family history. The government experiment. The centuries-old vendetta. The stolen sword.

"Who is he?"

"Why do you assume my nemesis is a he?" she asked, raising his right leg onto a large pillow. He winced at her assured, forceful movements, more out of fear of re-injury than any real pain.

He thought about that. "I don't know, really. Comic books, I guess."

She rolled her eyes. "They get everything wrong."

"Yeah, I don't think radioactive spiders really exist," he grinned. "So, your nemesis is a she?"

"Nope, it's a guy."

"Ah." He nodded. "So do you really have an invisible plane?"

She smacked his chest. It hurt, a lot.

***

The next time, they came specifically for him.

He was in the parking lot of his office, weary after a long day and looking forward to getting home and watching some mindless television. Maybe an action film.

When the ninjas popped out from behind cars and out of trees, he was so shocked he stood absolutely still, convinced he was hallucinating until they were stuffing a canvas sack over his head and shoving him into the back seat of some unseen vehicle.

"Fuck!" he shouted, his newly bound limbs jerking in some ineffectual bid for freedom.

"Apologies, friend," a muffled voice addressed him from a few feet away. "It's nothing personal."

Then something blunt hit the side of his head and everything went black. Well, it was already black. Blacker. He was knocked unconscious, got it?

He was tied to a chair this time, getting punched in the face by, yep, those were ninjas alright. When a brief, blessed reprieve came, he spat out a mouthful of blood and teeth (oh, _Jesus_ ) and coughed. "Would you guys _please_ at least ask me something?"

"This isn't an interrogation," a second ninja stepped in to take over from the first. _Mandated breaks_ , he thought wildly. _Must be unionized_. "This is a beating."

"Oh, okay, wasn't clear on the con-OW."

She arrived quicker, and for the first time he got to see her in full on action.

_Wow. WOW._

She was incredible: swift, precise, powerful. And with a sword on top of it all. He knew he was suffering from some sort of delirium, but he promised himself that if they made it out of there alive, he would take her straight to bed and show her how incredible he thought she was.

They made it out of there alive.

He slept for forty-seven hours and then couldn't walk for three days.

Thought that counts, right?

***

It went on for a while. He didn't get kidnapped regularly, but just enough that he stopped panicking, and even began looking forward to his convalescence in her bed. Hey, the nurse fantasy is a well-established and long-engrained part of the American male psyche.

He hated the looks he got, though, walking into work with fresh bruises and broken limbs. He had to explain his absences also, days at a time and never with any prior notice. So he invented a new thrill-seeking habit, full of stories of rock climbing and BASE jumping and skiing. His boss, an outdoor aficionado, nodded knowingly and slapped him on the shoulder (recently dislocated, holy crap did that hurt) making him promise to pencil her in on one of his upcoming treks up Mount Whitney.

It didn't become funny until he was with her, her feet on his lap while she told him story after story of botched missions and terrible adversaries. Because even life-or-death didn't seem so heavy when it was just the two of them, in the quiet of her apartment.

So she fought bad guys, and he went to work, and occasionally men (and women?) dressed all in black would pop out of nowhere, give him a heart attack and snatch him away to some dark, creepy undisclosed location, where they would give him new bruises and broken bones and he would wait for her.

And she always came for him.

***

"Let's go see a movie."

"How about we stay in?" she asked.

He came out of the bathroom, rubbing a towel over his head. "Why?"

She looked at him over her shoulder. "It's been more frequent this month. I'd rather not take the risk."

"They wouldn't come for me if I'm with you," he pointed out. "They're scared shitless of you."

"They already have," she said. "A couple times."

"What are you talking about?"

She hesitated. "When I've been following you. Sometimes they manage to knock me out and then they go for you."

"You've been following me?" he said, his voice taking on an unattractive anger.

She shrugged. "Sometimes."

"No," he snapped, coming into the bedroom. "You don't get to be all nonchalant about this. Why have you been following me?"

"To keep you safe," she said, her voice cold and flat, with the _duh, you moron_ left unsaid but fully implied.

"Great job you've been doing so far," he muttered. He instantly wished he could take the words back.

Her back tensed, her eyes went hard and her mouth thinned. "So you'd rather I just left you alone, would you?"

He closed his eyes. "I didn't say that." She glared. "I didn't _mean_ that."

"You should mean it," she snapped, getting up off the bed. "You should want me to leave you alone."

"Nah," he said, the corners of his lips turning up. "The sex is too good."

She threw her hands in the air, exasperated. "How are you joking about this?"

"Look at me," he said, spreading his arms wide. "I'm the picture of health!"

Her eyes took in the fading yellow bruises on his face, the knobby part of his fingers where they'd been broken, the thin scars that rain along his limbs and torso. She turned her face away. "That's not funny."

"You're not breaking up with me, you've tried that before," he said shortly, going back into the bathroom.

"You're being stupid!"

"Probably."

"They why?" she asked, distressed.

"Because I'm kind of in love with you!" he shouted from the bathroom as he applied toothpaste to his toothbrush.

There was silence, and then she was behind him, her arms around his waist, her forehead against his spine. They breathed, her hands resting on his heart and ribs, feeling the air going in and out of his body.

"I love you, too," she whispered.

He was brushing his teeth, but he totally would have kissed her senseless at that moment.

***

The last time, he went after _them_.

He knew more than they thought. He knew far more than she thought. He knew that they had three bases, strategically separated at different corners of the city. He had a good idea of where two of the three bases were, and better than that, after being dragged through its halls on seven different occasions, he knew his way around the biggest one very well (enough). (Or so he thought.)

He wasn't trained in martial arts or swordplay, so he bought guns. Big guns, automatic weapons with long belts of ammunition. He bought grenades. And, for good measure, he bought a bayonet.

You just never really know.

So on a Thursday afternoon, in broad daylight, he strode to the entrance of his large, deserted-looking warehouse, shouldered his bag and walked in the front door.

She watched, helpless, from the smallest warehouse where she was handcuffed to a steel chair in front of a bank of television screens. Her screams were rendered mute and moot by the gag in her mouth and the miles in between them, so she had no recourse but to watch as he walked straight into his doom.

She'd never broken a pair of handcuffs before. She was strong, but not supernaturally so. Her ability was all skill and training, not super-hero powers. She did, however, know how to dislocate her thumb in order to escape a cuff. She simply needed some leverage.

Her legs kicked out, taking out the two nearest ninjas swiftly. By the time the rest of the group had turned their attention to her, she was on her feet, handcuffed to the chair but still mobile and deadly. It was easier than she expected, but by the time reinforcements arrived in droves, she had already jammed her thumb against the wall to dislocate the joint, squeezing the cuff off her wrist with agonizing slowness.

It hurt like nothing she'd ever experienced before. But she was free, she was angry, and adrenaline was coursing through her veins like morphine mixed with Red Bull. Before she knew it, she had broken out of the compound leaving a pile of black-swathed henchmen unconscious or dead in her wake. She was in her stolen truck speeding towards the larger warehouse before her thumb started to throb again.

" _Ow_ ," she hissed, cradling her hand close to her body. "I'm going to kill him, the _idiot_."

If he hadn't at that moment been hanging upside down in a straightjacket, praying for her to come and save him, he might have actually been afraid to see her.

***

He heard her long before he saw her. So did the ninjas. He could feel the tension rise exponentially in the room at the first explosion, swords drawn swiftly as his captors prepared for the onslaught. He closed his eyes, listening to the chaos draw closer and closer, waiting.

He opened his eyes and there she was, staring at him silently. He grinned crookedly.

She seemed unsure what to do first: cut him down, smack him, kiss him, scream at him, hug him, check him for injuries, or simply burst into tears. So she did all of them, one after another, on repeat and shuffle, until he found the upper body strength to push her away.

"Hey," he said, his throat tight and raspy. "Shut up, would you?"

She hit him again, softer and nicer than most of her others, and sniffled. "You are so fucking stupid."

"I know," he said quickly. "Never again, I promise."

She looked at him angrily. "I dislocated my thumb to get to you."

He narrowed his eyes. "Are we really going to compare injury stories here? Because I would win every day of the week and twice on Sundays."

She sighed, wiping at her eyes and taking in their surroundings. Her eyes fell on the bag of discarded weapons. "Seriously, Rambo?"

He shrugged, impish. "Thought it might help?"

"Idiot," she muttered, her fingers skimming over fresh wounds and old scars on his face and neck. "No more guns."

"We'll see," he said, putting his arm around her shoulder so she could help him walk out. "I kind of like that super big one that shoots grenades."

"Fuck me," she said to herself.

"Well," he said agreeably as she hoisted him into the truck cab. "You don't have to ask me twice."

She started the car and began to drive out of the compound, running over a few ninjas for good measure. He fell silent beside her, staring thoughtfully out at the road as she merged onto the dark highway. Her heart ached, then swelled, then clenched, and she wondered what the hell she was doing with someone who could make her feel this way without her express consent.

Then he took her hand in his, his fingers careful around the swollen joint. She looked at him, the cuts and bruises he had endured for her, the small smile playing around the corner of his lips, and she admitted to herself that she had never really stood a chance against him.

Her arm rested on the back of the seat, and he leaned against her, and they were going to be okay.

***

Dear Mr. [redacted],

In light of the casualties sustained over the past several weeks, we, the representatives of the International Union of Professional Ninjas, Henchmen and Stormtroopers, are writing to inform you that as of 1 January, 2011, and until new labor conditions are discussed and agreed upon, the Union will enact an official strike.

For further information, please forward your inquiries to our lawyer, Mrs. [redacted] and her associates.

We look forward to coming to an amicable and fair solution.

Sincerely,

[Redacted], President of the International Union of Professional Ninjas, Henchmen and Stormtroopers


End file.
